from Contemplations

So he that faileth in this world of pleasure,

Feeding on sweets that never bit of th' sour,

That's full of friends, of honour, and of treasure,

Fond fool, he takes this earth ev'n for heav'ns bower,

But sad affliction comes and makes him see

Here's neither honour, wealth, or safety.

Only above is found all with security.

O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things

That draws oblivion's curtains over kings,

Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not;

Their names with a Record are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' dust.

Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust,

But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

~Anne Bradstreet